Epilogue: The Dragon of Mossflower
by Dark Nation42
Summary: The epilogue for a long piece of Redwall fiction that I will probably never write. Long ago I was struck with inspiration for the ending, though, so I wanted to write it down before I lost it forever. I wrote this when I was 19, so 6 years ago: clearly not up to my current standards, but worth putting here I suppose.


A/N: This is the final part to a piece of Redwall fanfiction I planned once to write, but know now that I never will. I was struck with inspiration for the very end of it, so went ahead and wrote it.

A bit of background information necessary to understand the epilogue: a major part of the story will be that the main character, Bergen, was intelligent and resourceful enough to invent gunpowder in an age of swords and spears. This invention is perhaps the primary thing that allowed his side to win a war that would've otherwise been against terrible odds. However, such things do not come without their price.

**Epilogue**

Many a long season had come and gone since those fateful autumn wars.

The Dragon of Mossflower put aside his quill and blew out the waning candle, welcoming the soft gloom of a summer night. His bones ached, but he welcomed the pain. His eyesight had grown dim, and his lenses had grown thicker, but the fuzziness to his vision was oddly comforting, and Arthur could always make him new spectacles.

As he stood from his desk to leave the gatehouse, the old otter caught sight of his reflection in a starlit window. When had his muzzle gotten so grey?

Bergen had served as abbey Warrior throughout the duration of his prime, and had been offered the position of Abbot when he retired his sword for good. He had no desire to be anybeast's ruler for the rest of his days, so he declined and worked as the Abbey engineer, designing new devices and wrapping his eager mind around old inconveniences. The moles practically worshiped him: never before had they seen anybeast solve mechanical problems with such brilliant efficiency (then again, moles never learned calculus, either).

Ever since Bergen had begun to truly feel the weight of his age he had been the Recorder of Redwall. It was a duty he welcomed and enjoyed, for while his limbs and strength wasted slowly away in that inevitable dance of time, his mind remained as keen as the blade he had carried in his youth. Sometimes his paws ached dully with the strain of writing long into the night, but it gave him pleasure to bear the pain silently, and he knew that he was the best for the job. He would not give it up until he died or lost his mind.

Mossflower had not seen any violence since those distant days when Bergen was the Dragon. His armor had been given back to Salamandastron with the request to melt it down and reuse the precious metal. Only his helmet, ever fearsome and still gleaming sharply, hung on the inside of his gatehouse door, serving as an eternal reminder of bygone days. It would remain there until his death, and would eventually be moved into Great Hall to be hung above the sword of Martin.

Bergen loved the Abbey. He was happy, he had more than he ever desired, and all of his needs were met. His paw was never idle, his belly never empty, and his mind never unstimulated. Lately, however, he had been plagued by an incessant worry. He sensed that he was inexorably drawing near the end of his seasons, and while it was not death he feared, he knew that certain things left undone would remain undone. Countless generations could suffer, and a decision had to be made.

The dreams were the worst, and most indicative of his subconscious worry. Several times in the past week alone he had awoken with a start, trembling and cold with sweat, from a frightening nightmare. Fire and loud, rushing noise consumed his thoughts, and his skin pricked with a searing heat that was so real and palpable he could almost smell singed fur in the night. Bergen was a rational otter and did not believe that anybeast could see the future. He trusted his intellect and his intuition, and he knew that these terrible dreams stemmed from a deep concern that had been present in his mind for countless seasons.

And this is why Bergen found himself shuffling from the gatehouse long after dark, leaning upon his oaken cane, with a duty weighing heavily on his grizzled brow. He was careful not to disturb his wife, who slept deeply in their shared gatehouse bed. The old otter crossed the grass to the Abbey building and quietly stole across a moonlit Great Hall, his bent form casting long shadows across the walls in the silver stillness.

The cellars were cool even in the summer. Their darkness was thick and impenetrable; even so, Bergen did not light a torch, though he carried flint and tinder in the small rucksack he always kept at his side. His hearing and sight may be withering away like oak leaves in autumn, but his sense of touch was acute as ever. He blindly ran his rough paws over the old barrels, feeling the coolness of rich liquid within, until he finally found what he was looking for: four roughhewn, nondescript sacks, stacked vertically in a corner. They were heavy, but Bergen was a resourceful otter and the remnants of his youthful strength still showed in the curvature of his arms and back. It took many times longer than it would a beast in his prime, but the otter hoisted a sack over his shoulder – one by one – and painstakingly creaked up the steps to the surface.

Sometimes the summer makes even full-grown Redwallers act like Dibbuns, Bergen thought with a small smile. They were forgetful and drunk on the warmth and the sun, and tended to leave things out for the night. Brother John's orchard trolley sat dependably near the apple trees, pruning shears lying open near its handle. Bergen brought the trolley across the starlit grass to the Abbey entrance, where he stacked the four sacks carefully upon it. He then returned to the gatehouse, where the most difficult and final part of his task awaited.

Zelene had always been a sound sleeper, but Bergen was silent as a ghost as he slipped past her sleeping form and crouched in front of his writing desk. Though he hadn't looked at them in over fifty seasons, he still knew where his formulas were. Bound crudely with twine, the parchment sheets stuck out at an obvious angle between two thicker books. He collected the parchment and returned to the trolley, which he then wheeled through a swiftly-opened east wall gate.

Bergen had always fancied that Mossflower had many faces, depending on the weather and time of year. She was always beautiful. Tonight, with a warm breeze buffeting a full, silver canopy, he imagined her as a massive ship, gliding soundlessly through an open sea beneath the stars. Her silver sails were illuminated in the meager light, and she was a mother to her sailors. I would liked to have been a sailor, thought Bergen.

He followed a path that he had tread many times, and his footpaws knew the way unbidden. His body was already throbbing with the dull aches of tonight's activities, but he endured the pain and reached his destination with only a light sheen of sweat on his hoary features. It was a grassy knoll that rose up from a bank of the River Moss, and he wheeled the trolley to the water's edge. He hesitated for only a second before opening each of the four sacks and dumping their contents into the water's cold embrace.

The next part was the hardest. He thumbed pointlessly through his twined parchment sheets, running his paws over the fine text that he could not read in the darkness. He could still remember the very day he had written these. How the leverets had been amazed! Only they had believed his wild tales – the older hares had to see to believe. The old otter could not remember the previous day's breakfast, but he could still remember those hares' expressions when they saw! How proud he had been.

So many seasons ago.

He procured flint and tinder from his rucksack. The parchments were old and dry and had no trouble taking on the flame. It only took seconds for them to be entirely consumed, and the wind carried the spent ashes of his life's work away on its inexorable tendrils.

"My life's work," he said aloud.

A moment later he heard a twig snap behind him and whirled around, his paw clutching uselessly at his belt where a sword had been buckled fifty seasons ago.

"I should hardly think of it as your life's work," said his wife.

The old otter relaxed, but a sudden wave of confusion and regret passed over him. Zelene was framed in the starlight, her silver fur radiating effulgence. "How long have you been here?" he said softly.

"I heard you leave the abbey. I wanted to see what you were up to, but I was afraid that revealing my presence to you would have caused you to alter your decision."

Bergen was silent, collecting his thoughts. He was hesitant and unsure of what to say. Zelene, leaning on her cane, came to him and sat upon the grassy knoll, patting the ground next to her.

"Sit," she said. He did.

They sat in companionable silence for some time, gazing at the sky and drinking in the starlight. It was some time before Bergen broke the silence.

"Did I do the right thing, Ze?"

"What do you think?"

It wasn't rhetorical. Bergen thought for a moment. "I was nothing special. I was quick, and lucky, and opportunistic. Someday, another bright young beast will make this discovery again, and perhaps then the world will be ready for it. I – I am so afraid of what would happen if it was used for ill, or by badbeasts, or by one inexperienced and foolhardy…" He paused. "Our grandson, little Rhett – he – he can fit in the palm of my paw, Ze…" He trailed off, staring at his large and grizzled paws, confused and unsure of what he was trying to say.

She understood. The silver otter wrapped her arthritic paws around her husband and held him close, stroking his head gently. He melted into her embrace as he had done long ago, when he was quick and brilliant and full of life. They sat like that for a long time, the silence thick and soft around them. Zelene spoke at long last.

"Do you still think about it, Bergen?"

He knew what she meant.

"Every day," he said.

The crushing blow of noise and flame would never leave his mind. It loomed in the darkness at night and it haunted the shadows of the day. It bit at his heals like a hungry reptile, never satisfied. It followed him around like an angry swarm disturbed by rain. It buffeted his mind with regret and misery. It filled his ears with the relentless screaming of his enemies as they perished scores at a time. It filled his dreams with the silence of those who never had the chance to scream at all. He had never thought it was possible to kill so many at once. How terrified they had been. How helpless.

He could still remember bodies flying through the air, missing limbs or torn in half. The memory of the stoat pleading with him was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Blood on the beach. The strange, acrid smell of sulfur and entrails and death in the air. He hated fighting. He hated fighting.

"I think I did the right thing," he said.

He began to weep. At first it shocked Zelene, who could not remember ever seeing her husband cry before. But she held him tight as the sobs wracked through his stiff body and his tears moistened her shawl. "I didn't mean to," he said. She didn't have to ask what he meant.

When Bergen had shed the last tears from his body, he took a deep shuddering breath and for the first time that he could remember, he felt completely at peace. They sat together again for a while, breathing in the night, letting the breeze toy with silver whiskers, thinking.

"Science really is amazing," Bergen said.

Zelene smiled and pushed at him playfully. "You're always saying that," she said.

"But it is!" Bergen sat up suddenly and threw his paws wide, a sudden spitting image of the vigorous beast that had once conquered all of the Western shores. "One day, my love, beasts will travel in machines that move without other beasts pulling them. They will make machines that will take them up into the air, unconnected to the ground!"

The silly old otter was known to talk fanciful now and then, but Zelene had never heard him speak of this. He had been right too many times in the past to have such a seemingly ridiculous foretelling discounted.

"Do you mean it? How can you know?"

"I am not a seer, and I'm not prescient. I just know how progress works. Rational beasts are never content for long. How can we gaze enviously at the birds without longing to join them?"

"Longing and doing aren't the same."

"Yes," he admitted. "But I like to be optimistic."

Silence again, love and companionship tight in the air.

"I have another prediction, my dear. But you'll laugh – you'll think I'm silly."

Zelene nuzzled him. "When have I ever not? Tell me."

Bergen's eyes gleamed with starlight and daring, mischievous hope. He took her paw and directed her gaze toward the heavens. "One day," he whispered, "Many seasons from now – thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands – beasts will make machines that can travel between the stars."

Zelene's eyes widened at the prospect. Of course it was preposterous, but it was an amazing thought. Between the stars! What could we ever want there? She thought. We don't even know what they _are_.

She was gazing at the heavens, still mulling over this, but Bergen was now looking at her. The seasons had lined her fine features, and her muzzle and ears were heavy with silver. Bergen touched her cheek softly, murmuring, "You are still as beautiful as you were the day I met you."

Zelene closed her eyes and leant against his touch, marveling that the same paw that could slay tenscore hordebeasts could make her body rise just so. "And your paw is still as gentle," she said. "My Dragon."

His heart flared at her use of the old name, and they made love together beneath the stars. They were slick with morning dew when they made their way back to the abbey, grinning and drunk with happiness. Their canes were forgotten on the grassy knoll by the river. Bergen felt that seasons had shed from him overnight, and a weight of eons had descended from his shoulders to be broken up by the quick current of a cold mountain river.

Up in his dormitory, a small otter mewled in his sleep and turned over, dreaming of numbers.


End file.
